


The Best of Both Worlds

by ciremme



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Book: Genesis, Gen, M/M, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciremme/pseuds/ciremme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of a time when Heaven and Hell sent reinforcement to Aziraphale and Crowley respectively, and the reason why they never did it again. Set in the Book of Genesis. Written for the Good Omens exchange 2012 and beta-read by <a href="http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/">Irisbleufic</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of Both Worlds

It all started at a wedding. Not just any wedding, of course – a splendid, long-awaited, and perfectly ruined wedding.  
  
Crowley's hair was longer that it had been in centuries. His robes were as magnificent and stylish as possible, considering that he had spent ages living among scraggy sheep, bearded men, and veiled women with very limited imagination (when it came to fashion design and fabric patterns).  
  
Needless to say, Aziraphale somehow managed to wear the most outdated get-up ever spotted at a wedding up till that point in history. When Crowley said so, he just smiled and raised his goblet.  
  
“Let’s not squabble, my dear. Everyone is so happy that this wedding is finally taking place.”  
  
“Oh, yes, we all have cause for rejoicing,” said Crowley, and tried to hide a smirk behind his own goblet.  
  
Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, but before he could voice any suspicion, a group of noisy dancers crashed into his back. He stumbled forward, and Crowley heard a softly murmured _My, my!_ next to his temple before he steadied the angel by gripping his shoulders.  
  
“Come on,” he said with a smirk. “Let’s get wasted.”  
  
They had gotten drunk together a few times before, but it was not until the next morning that Crowley would fully grasp the meaning of the word _wasted_.  
  
The whole tent groaned in unison as they were awakened at dawn by the ear-splitting yells of male and female voices in their immediate vicinity. Crowley startled and instinctively buried his head in his hands. He knew how to get alcohol out of his system, but had never dealt with a hangover like this before. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was unpleasantly sober and alert.  
  
“Crowley, what's going on?”  
  
His loud words were followed by more groaning and wincing from the other guests.  
When Crowley failed to answer, the angel scrambled to his feet and rushed out of the tent. Shortly after his exit, the yelling was interrupted and ended by the loud banging of doors.  
  
Immediately afterward, Aziraphale stormed back in and dragged Crowley to his feet.  
  
“What have you _done_?”  
  
From the corners of his aching eyes, Crowley observed how one of the dancers raised a likewise dazed head. “Oi,” he muttered. “Could you keep it down a - ”  
  
Aziraphale silenced Crowley before glancing back at him. “Get out,” he hissed. “Or do you want me to discorporate you in here?” His words had a long-desired, sobering effect.  
  
Once they had left the settlement far behind, the sun was rising, and from their elevated position, the scraggy sheep looked like rosé and apricot-coloured clouds drifting over the dusty pasture.  
  
At the highest point, Aziraphale abruptly stopped and turned to face Crowley. He was still angry, but his face had lost some of its sharpness. He looked more frustrated than righteous.  
  
“Are you happy?” he asked. “Once again, you've ruined everything!”  
  
“Look,” Crowley said and raised his hands. “You have no idea how easy it was to tempt Laban. I'm pretty sure he would have done most of it without my interference.”  
  
“Well, now we’ll never know,” Aziraphale snapped. “Jacob was almost out of his mind with fury! He'd worked so hard these past seven years!”  
  
Crowley shrugged.  
  
“Humans are funny. What’s so wrong with Leah? She's more suitable to mother his countless descendants if you ask me. Unlike him, she’s at least firstborn. You and Jacob should thank me for my help.”  
  
“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “Jacob wants Rachel! To him, Leah's just an unsatisfying substitute.”  
  
Crowley crossed his arms and frowned.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Well. Because he loves Rachel, of course.”  
  
Their gazes met.  
  
“But I suppose you wouldn’t understand that,” Aziraphale said politely and stepped away from him. “Now, if you'll excuse me, my dear, I have to knock some sense back into Laban before this whole place goes up in flames.” He opened his wings and took off.  
  
There was a second wedding within seven days. It was much less glorious than the first one, and the bridal pair vanished from their midst as soon as good manners would permit. A look of confusion crossed Aziraphale’s face when the crowd started cheering and yelling after the departing couple.  
  
“And that,” Crowley said smugly, “is something _you_ wouldn’t understand.”  
  
Aziraphale's politely feigned confusion turned into flustered disapproval.  
  
“Don’t be silly. I know _perfectly_ well what they're up to.” Aziraphale emptied his goblet in one go, but shook his head when Crowley casually offered him the wine jar. “I'm not getting drunk with you for a while.”  
  
“Aw, come on. There's no need to hold a grudge.” Crowley gestured towards the white petals on the floor. “Jacob got Rachel in the end. No harm done.”  
  
The angel shook his head.  
  
“Jacob got Rachel _and_ Leah,” he insisted. “There’s a difference.”  
  
“Yes,” Crowley said, flashing his teeth. “He got the firstborn _and_ the one he’s been lusting after since he first set foot in this place.”  
  
“No. It doesn’t work like that,” Aziraphale replied sternly. “No one ever gets the best of both worlds. There'ss always a catch.”  
  
Crowley refilled their goblets and grimaced.  
  
“How dreadfully dull.”  
  
“ _We_ would call it fair, my dear.”  
  
Crowley ignored this and pushed Aziraphale’s goblet back into his hand, raising his own.  
  
“To Rachel and Leah,” he said with a grin. “And to the catch.”  
  
Aziraphale hesitated, but eventually he returned the toast.  
  
It was the last decent night they would have for a long time.  
  
What followed the second wedding became the source of what was hailed as one of the most boring and repetitive passages of the Bible. Crowley and Aziraphale would later refer to it as _The War of the Babies_.  
  
Crowley took Leah’s side – partly out of stubbornness, partly because of an embarrassing sentiment he would never admit to anyone. She was not as sharp-tongued as Rachel, but she was also not stupid. Her greatest fault was that she had rather strange eyes. They were two different shades – one dark, and the other light brown. From afar, it sometimes appeared that her eyes were crossed. The demon had his own fair share of unusual eyes, and so made sure to equip Leah with all of his knowledge about ancient Babylonian fertility spells. The results were quite admirable.  
  
The angel, of course, was on Rachel’s side. Occasionally, Crowley saw him in her tent patting her hand while a smug and obviously pregnant Leah strolled around with at least two little boys at her side or in her arms. Shortly after Zebulon’s birth, Crowley was so fed up with squealing babies, brawling sisters, and stupid old Jacob’s moping that he meandered into the desert as a snake for a few weeks to scare some shepherds.  
  
During his return in the middle of a starlit night, he was stopped by a glorious, yet highly unwelcome sight on one of the few hills near Laban’s settlement. Four angels in traditional white robes and radiant wings had formed a circle on its narrow peak. Their combined light stung Crowley’s eyes, but he squinted determinedly and slithered toward their flame-like figures.  
On approaching, he observed that they were all platinum blond and tall, except for one angel, whose curls shimmered golden brown in the semi-darkness. Just as Crowley reached the foot of the hill, the tallest stepped forward and pulled his shorter counterpart into an embrace.  
  
Yellow snake-eyes narrowed and widened, full of sudden realisation. Just then, Crowley’s treacherous tongue escaped his scaled lips with a hiss, and his glossy body made an abrupt U-turn.  
  
Later, he lay awake while Rachel sobbed softly a few tents away.  
  
 _Foolish girl_ , he thought, and pulled the blankets over his ears. _Leah was intended to be his wife from the very beginning. How could you ever forget?_  
  
The next day, Rachel triumphantly announced her first pregnancy to her stunned husband and sister, and Crowley found Aziraphale in the shadow of a date-tree. He was nibbling on one of its golden brown fruits and stared dreamily to the flickering heat of the horizon. In his fringed, beige garment and dusty sandals, he looked just like any of the gormless shepherds Crowley had so successfully terrified out of their wits in the past few weeks. Only his eyes were different.  
  
When he noticed Crowley’s presence, he turned with a slight start.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, smiling, and offered him a seat to his left.  
  
Crowley shook his head and leaned against the flaky trunk of the tree.  
  
“You seem very cheerful today.”  
  
“Haven’t you heard the happy news?”  
  
“Who hasn’t? Jacob is organising a bloody feast.”  
  
“That’s nice.”  
  
“Seems a bit rash to me,” Crowley countered. “Don’t you think?”  
  
“Why rash?”  
  
“She doesn’t _look_ pregnant, yet she seems very sure of herself.”  
  
Aziraphale flipped one of the date-seeds into the sand and turned to the next fruit in his lap.  
  
“Maybe that’s a human thing. Knowing when you're expecting.”  
  
Suppressing an annoyed growl, Crowley folded his hands at his back and stared to the hill where the secret meeting had taken place only a few hours ago. _It’s not a human thing_ , he thought angrily. _They guess at everything, including biology. And you know that perfectly well._  
  
“Still seems odd to me”, he said instead. “She's never conceived before. And, now all of a sudden, _bam_.” He watched the angel out of the corner of his eye, but Aziraphale was completely undisturbed.  
  
“It was her turn,” he said simply. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
The heavy, dry leaves of the palm trembled when Crowley pushed away from its trunk.  
  
“Will you come to the feast?” Aziraphale called after him.  
  
“No,” Crowley replied without turning his head. “I have things to take care of.”  
  
 _I have my own secrets,_ he thought.  
  
The next handful of months were full of preparation. Rachel prepared for the birth of her baby. Jacob planned the celebration of the baby’s birth. Aziraphale snuck out into the desert at least once a week and returned with an air of angelic bliss. And Crowley held his own secret meetings, working on a scheme that reached its completion on the very first day of little Joseph’s life.  
  
The feast was more elaborate than all ten feasts that had followed the births of Jacob’s older sons put together. From the early morning, the chatter of the guests and performers filled the air, and the tables in the great marquee bent under the weight of roasted lamb-ribs, cheese loaves, stuffed olives, sesame bread, candied figs, and pomegranates with honey. Of course, there was also plenty of wine.  
  
Crowley, however, preferred to stay sober for once and was still nursing his first drink when the feast reached one of its many peaks: the parade of presents. For this occasion, the baby and an oversized cradle had been placed in the middle of the tent.  
  
Crowley watched the spectacle from one of the darker corners. Just when one of Jacob’s wealthier guests presented the child and his beaming parents with a downy, almost white camel calf, Crowley heard a soft voice next to his right ear.  
  
“You’ve been awfully quiet these last few months. Is something the matter?”  
  
Aziraphale’s face bore an expression that reminded Crowley of the glances Leah’s oldest son Reuben had been throwing at his mother since the beginning of the feast. But, of course, Aziraphale would never be concerned about _him_. The angel was obviously just sensing trouble.  
  
“And how would you know?” Crowley replied. “You've been absent most of the time.”  
  
Now, Aziraphale looked a bit like Gad after he had broken one of Asher’s favourite toys. Or maybe Crowley had just been spending way too much time with Jacob’s noisy brood.  
  
“Did you miss me?” the angel asked.  
  
“No,” said Crowley, a little too quickly.  
  
Before Aziraphale could speak again, Crowley emptied his goblet and slammed it back on the table.  
“What happened to _you can’t have the best of both worlds_?” he asked and gestured into the direction of Jacob, Rachel, and Leah at the head of the table.  
  
After this seemingly abrupt change of topic, Aziraphale blinked and turned his head.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“He gets to have both. Are you going to let him get away with this?”  
  
Aziraphale turned his gaze back to him.  
  
“Are _you_ , Crowley?”  
  
The other guests were dancing and singing loudly again, and his and the angel’s faces were so close together they almost touched.  
  
“No”, Crowley finally said. “I’m bloody well _not_.” He wanted to get up and leave without looking back, but there was a vexingly knowing expression in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What?” he hissed.  
  
“You're going to be the catch, then, I see.”  
  
Crowley narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Are you manipulating me, angel?”  
  
“No,” Aziraphale said. “I'm predicting your next move.”  
  
“Oh,” Crowley replied with a glare. “So I'm completely predictable now?”  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale said, “you're a demon. Of _course_ you'd be the catch.”  
  
“I get it,” said Crowley, and rose to his feet. “You recently received some coaching on how we demons _really_ tick, and now you think you know it all. But I bet you didn’t see this one coming.”  
  
He jerked his head into the direction of two grim young men who had just entered the tent. With a sweet rush of spite, he watched how Aziraphale’s calm expression derailed before Crowley pulled his gaze away and departed with elegantly swishing robes.  
  
After a few steps from the tent, he found little Judah on the lap of one of his older brothers. The seven-year-old’s face was streaming with tears.  
  
Crowley stopped more intuitively than anything else.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asked.  
  
“Joseph’s got a camel!” the boy sobbed. “And he doesn’t even know how to walk yet! It’s so unfair!” Both he and his brother had inherited the darker shade of their mother’s eyes.  
  
“Yes, it’s unfair,” Crowley agreed. “But you know what?”  
  
“What?” Judah snivelled.  
  
“Dan also seems upset.”  
  
Crowley pointed to an energetic, curly-haired figure kicking stones over the dusty ground in front of the marquee. Leah’s children and Rachel’s adopted sons had never been on good terms. Until now.  
  
“Why don’t you talk to him?” he suggested. “You could sneak into your aunt’s tent together and put a frog into the cradle of that spoiled brat. Or a cockroach.”  
  
Judah giggled and got to his feet.  
  
“You're funny, Uncle Cra’li.”  
  
Children were so easy to tempt. It was almost embarrassing.  
  
Late that night, Crowley sensed another ethereal being in the settlement. Even after Laban’s dim-witted sons had stormed into the tent and yelled at their smug cousin for half an hour, the feast had continued and most guests now lay in a deep, intoxicated sleep.  
  
In his darkest garments, Crowley crept through the night and spied on Aziraphale and the other angel, who were standing in front of Jacob’s tent. It was the tallest and blondest of the bunch – the one who had hugged Aziraphale. Tonight, they were intimately whispering with each other. Just when Crowley had crept close enough to eavesdrop on them, the taller angel nodded shortly and disappeared into Jacob’s tent. Aziraphale crossed and uncrossed his arms looking after him nervously.  
  
“Look who’s got himself some reinforcement,” Crowley said, stepping closer to him. “I'm flattered.”  
  
“Crowley...”  
  
“No, really. Maybe I should send for some of my people,” Crowley continued. “Just to even the odds, you understand. Make things _fair_."  
  
Aziraphale opened his mouth but he was interrupted by an echoing voice only he, Crowley, and the loudly snoring Jacob could hear.  
  
 _RETURN UNTO THE LAND OF THY FATHERS AND TO THY KINDRED, AND I WILL BE WITH THEE._  
  
Crowley pressed his hands to his ears and blessed heartily. The tent was now emanating a bright light that made his eyes water. “I didn’t know you were leaving,” he hissed.  
  
“Well,” Aziraphale replied in an irritatingly calm voice. ”We are. And so should you.”  
  
“All right. I'm coming with you.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” the angel said, with a glance toward the glowing tent.  
  
“I'm not taking orders from you,” Crowley said coolly.  
  
“It’s just a piece of advice.”  
  
Before Crowley could finish an elaborate and very creative suggestion regarding the method by which Aziraphale should keep and reuse this piece of advice, the angel stepped closer to him.  
  
“I have a feeling that you're taking this too personally”, he said quietly. “I'm just doing my job. Like I always have.”  
  
“No, you're not,” Crowley replied, glaring at the tent. “ _That guy_ is doing your job.”  
  
“Well, technically speaking, he’s doing _our_ job.”  
  
“You seem to have grown really fond of the plural form of late - ”  
  
The light suddenly faded, and Aziraphale frowned.  
  
“Gilariel will be back any minute,” he interrupted. “I know you don’t like being outnumbered, but you can always change that, right? You really _do_ have to go.” His voice was strangely adjuratory, and one hand touched Crowley’s elbow for a short moment.  
  
The demon turned away with a slow hiss.  
  
“I’ll be around,” he said in a biting tone over his shoulder. “If you need me.”  
  
Crowley's next actions amounted to a grave mistake.  
  
He had a bad feeling even before the greenish flames leapt in the elaborate chalk circle.  
  
 _CROWLEY?_  
  
“Yes! Er, _hi_.”  
  
 _WHY HAVE YOU CALLLED?_  
  
“Er, well, you know! It's been a while, and I thought - ”  
  
The flames flickered impatiently.  
  
 _CROWLEY. OVER A HUNDRED NEW SOULS HAVE ARRIVED IN THE PAST FEW HOURS, AND WE HAVE INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT MATTERS WHICH NEED IMMEDIATE AND TORTUROUS ATTENDANCE. GET TO THE POINT._  
  
“Yeah, right. I know, I know,” Crowley muttered. “It’s just, I need - I - ”  
  
 _SPEAK UP, CROWLEY._  
  
Crowley cleared his throat.  
  
“The angels are up to something.”  
  
The colour of the flames turned to a greenish blue.  
  
 _DO YOU HAVE ANY DETAILS?_  
  
“It’s something to do with His Chosen People, as per usual,” Crowley blabbed. “Up until now, their Chosen One’s only had one or two sons, but the current one has _eleven_. Alarming, right? This time, though, the whole thing is for real.”  
  
 _HAVE YOU TEMPTED ANY OF THEM YET?_  
  
“Well,” Crowley said, remembering Judah’s tears. “Yes. Sure! Loads.”  
  
 _YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY STIRRED TROUBLE AMONGST BROTHERS BEFORE. YOU EVEN RECEIVED A COMMENDATION FOR IT, ACCORDING TO OUR RECORDS. CAN YOU ACHIEVE THIS AGAIN?_  
  
“I’ll try,” Crowley replied hastily. “But - ”  
  
 _THERE. IT IS DONE._  
  
The flames began to shrink, and Crowley shivered with chilly, sudden knowledge.  
  
 _I AM EXPECTING MONTHLY REPORTS._  
  
“Hey, wait! I...”  
  
The flames reluctantly stopped shrinking.  
  
“The angel,” Crowley said, and froze for a moment. “I mean, the enemy agent has got some additional support from Above, and I wondered...”  
  
 _DO YOU WANT ME TO SEND SOMEONE TO TAKE CARE OF THEM?_  
  
“Um, no. That’s not necessary. But I wondered whether I could have...” Crowley thought about it fervently for a few moments. “An apprentice. I would like to have an apprentice.”  
  
 _AN APPRENTICE?_  
  
“You know, someone I could...pass my knowledge on to. About tempting humans, causing turmoil amongst brothers, and sabotaging the Enemy. That kind of thing.”  
  
The flames flickered with interest.  
  
“I already have three commendations,” Crowley added. “Some rookie could learn a lot from me.”  
  
 _WE’LL SEE WHAT WE CAN DO ABOUT THIS REQUEST OF YOURS. YOU MIGHT HAVE TO FILL OUT SOME PAPERWORK FIRST, BUT WE'LL CHASE UP DAGON ABOUT THAT. YOU WILL BE HEARING FROM US, CROWLEY._  
  
All seven wood billets collapsed with loud cracking noises, and the flames died down, leaving nothing but an emerald glow in the dark. He didn’t hear from Beelzebub again. There were no forms to fill out. Seven days later, a dark figure approached the place where Cra’li was tending his sheep (at which task he sucked masterfully).  
  
“All hail Satan!” said the figure.  
  
Crowley got this feet and waved cheerfully.  
  
“Howdy!”  
  
“It’s Paimon,” the other demon said with a frown. “My name is Paimon.”  
  
They had given him a quite brutish shape and eyes with a reddish tint around the pupils.  
  
“My name is Crowley. You must be my apprentice.”  
  
Paimon looked around with almost completely black eyes. He was obviously not used to the body yet, because his motions seemed kind of clumsy.  
  
“Welcome,” Crowley said with a grin. “Your timing couldn’t be better.”  
  
“You mean worse.”  
  
“Yeah. Worse.” Crowley made a Mesopotamian welcoming gesture, opening his arms to both sides, and Paimon stared at him in bewilderment. “You have a lot to learn,” he said. “First you need decent clothes, and then - ”  
  
“Where are the angels?” Paimon interrupted. “My supervisor told me I'll learn how to kill angels.”  
  
Crowley blinked. _Your supervisor must be Hastur_ , he thought.  
  
“Well, I'm your boss now,” he said. “Everything in good time.”  
  
“ _Bad_ time.”  
  
“Yeah! Bad time, right. But first, you need new garments. Come with me.”  
  
There was an atmosphere of departure among Jacob’s family and servants, and it was ridiculously easy to steal some robes from one of the many boxes left sitting in front of the tents.  
  
“Now that you look kind of decent, I’ll teach you some of the basics regarding human nature." Crowley summoned a jar full of wine and took a seat under the date tree where he had talked to Aziraphale many months ago. His apprentice followed with a distinctly bored expression.  
  
“Where are the angels?” Paimon asked sullenly.  
  
Crowley glared at him.  
  
“Not here. For now, the humans will have to do.”  
  
Paimon sat next to him and stared at the goblet Crowley pushed into his hand.  
  
“Drink. You'll notice some interesting effects, and hopefully get used to your new body.”  
  
After Paimon had taken a skeptical sip, Crowley crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back. “Do you see how they're tearing their tents down and putting their belongings into boxes and on the backs of camels? They've lived here for years, some of them since they were born. They’ve never known anything else. Now, they're full of hope and fear for the future. It’s in paradox and exceptional circumstances such as these when they're most vulnerable.”  
  
Paimon listened silently.  
  
“Look,” Crowley said and pointed to the figure of a woman carrying something heavy in her arms. “She's stealing some of her father’s most precious possessions. At times like these, it's often better not to interfere, because they're causing enough trouble all on their own. But we still need to watch closely and find ways of making things more interesting for them. Have you ever tempted a human?”  
  
“No,” said Paimon, and then added helpfully, “I have tortured souls.”  
  
“Well, er, that’s...almost the same,” Crowley lied, and downed his drink (refilling it the same time).  
  
Suddenly, Paimon dropped his goblet and sprang to his feet. The red around his eyes glowed brightly.  
  
Crowley opened his mouth, but soon sensed what was amiss.  
  
Aziraphale stood only a few metres away, helping Rachel’s handmaid Bilhah with some boxes. His hair looked more golden than blondish brown in the hot, bright afternoon sun.  
  
“Paimon,” Crowley growled, but the other demon wasn’t listening. His body had become tense, like a carnivore stalking a lamb. Crowley got this his feet and stepped into his sight line. “Don’t even think about it.”  
  
“Why not? He’s with the Enemy.” Paimon was still staring at the angel, and licked his bared yellowish teeth with a black and scaly tongue.  
  
After a glance at Aziraphale, who had still not taken notice of them, Crowley turned back to Paimon.  
  
“Because I _sssay ssso_!”  
  
One angelic and four human heads turned in their direction.  
  
Crowley had somehow failed to notice how angry he'd got. Since the very first word he had exchanged with Paimon, it had become clear that Hell had completely ignored his original request and just sent him one of their dumbest, densest, and most useless torture-flunkies just to shut him up. In this, they had succeeded. He would never request anything from them ever again.  
However, he was even angrier with _himself_.  
  
He had quite forgot that most demons made for lousy companions. It was inherent to their nature. The only way Crowley could keep Paimon at his side and make him do what he wanted him to do was by bullying, threatening, and manipulating him. Demons were supposed to enjoy this hellish blend of constant intimidation, back-stabbing, and power struggles.  
  
In fact, Crowley liked this game quite a bit – but he had long ago dropped the cumbersome weapons with which his fellow demons insisted on playing it. The mastery of slaughtering, stabbing, strangling, beheading, poisoning, burning, and so forth was certainly efficient. But nothing compared to the triple-threat art of observing, listening, and _talking_.  
  
It was an art that Paimon would never learn. Not in a million years. Altogether, he was a nothing but a nuisance that Crowley had to get rid of as soon and as elegantly as possible.  
  
“Get out of here,” he snarled at Paimon, ignoring the gaping humans around him. “Go into the desert to the place where we first met and...wait.”  
  
When Paimon hesitated, Crowley slightly opened his mouth and flashed his own teeth at him – which were suddenly long, sharp, and perfectly white. Reluctantly, Paimon obeyed.  
  
“Who was that, my dear?”  
  
Crowley didn’t turn his head.  
  
“That’s none of your business.”  
  
“It most probably is.”  
  
Crowley narrowed his eyes and started walking away from him.  
  
“Who’s holding a grudge now?”  
  
Crowley’s steps faltered.  
  
“I'm a demon. We _hold_ grudges.”  
  
When Aziraphale failed to reply, Crowley finally turned his head to face him. Pale blue eyes were looking at him with an unreadable expression.  
  
“I know that.”  
  
“I thought maybe you needed a reminder,” Crowley said. “And we're bloody good at it!”  
  
Aziraphale’s gaze drifted towards the date palm and the two goblets in the sand and froze for a short moment before it flickered back to him. “I see," he said. His shoulders tensed, and he started to turn away.  
  
“His name is Paimon,” Crowley blurted out. “We just had a long talk about human nature. He’s a great observer and a fast learner. Did you see his style? I should have got someone like him _ages_ ago.”  
  
“I'm happy for you, my dear,” Aziraphale replied calmly.  
  
“Liar,” Crowley said in a cold voice. “Admit it. You're jealous.”  
  
“Maybe you need a reminder as well,” Aziraphale countered. “I'm an angel. We're incapable of jealousy. If you must know, I'm feeling relieved.”  
  
“Relieved?” Crowley said incredulously.  
  
“Yes. As I've been spending so much time with my Brothers, I was worried that you'd get lonely.”  
  
The barely concealed pity in his eyes made Crowley cringe and fume at the same time. He had to clench his fists to prevent himself from lunging at the angel.  
  
“But it seems like everything has taken a turn for the better,” Aziraphale chattered on. “Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a meeting with Gilariel, and I don’t want to be late.”  
  
And he was gone.  
  
Paimon’s red eyes glowed when Crowley finally caught up with him in the pasture.  
  
“What's wrong?” he asked Crowley, who was still shaking slightly. “You fought with him, right? I knew it! Lucky bastard! _I_ wanted to kill him!”  
  
“I didn’t kill him,” Crowley said quietly. “And we didn’t fight.”  
  
 _He just talked to me. That’s all._  
  
After days of preparation, Jacob and his family were ready to go. They planned to leave at night, and Crowley knew there would be forces making sure that their escape was quick and unseen.  
His plan was quite simple. Unfortunately, it depended on Paimon’s cooperation. And on his intelligence – which was even worse.  
  
“I don’t get it,” the brutish figure lurking next to him said. “Why don’t we just kill both of them?”  
  
“Because,” Crowley emphasised for the third time, “I need the smaller one. He holds important information. Feel free to kill the tall blond one if you want some action.”  
  
Paimon dimly pondered this for a few moments.  
  
“Okay,” he said finally, and reached for the weapon at his belt with smirking anticipation.  
  
“Great,” Crowley said drily and unfurled his wings. “I’ll search the clouds. You stay here.”  
  
There were, in fact, clouds over the desert – not many, but enough to hide in. The night wind felt cold on Crowley’s face while he continued lurking many miles above the ground. He waited for the sound of yelling and fighting, but it remained eerily still until the strokes of his wings turned increasingly staccato, making the grey clouds whirl in front of his eyes.  
  
Finally, there was a sound. But not the sound he had hoped for.  
  
It was a cry. Not a short and high-pitched one, but a drawn-out and thoroughly horror-stricken scream, and it was formed by a voice that spoke directly to the most hidden corners of Crowley’s soul.  
  
With his wings flattened, he raced downwards so rapidly that the wind cut into his face.  
Just before he reached the ground, the screaming broke off. He blessed fervently.  
  
Paimon’s voice echoed over the dunes.  
  
“Tell me thy secrets, Vile Enemy, or I will destroy thee completely!”  
  
In a whirlwind of sand, Crowley landed on his feet and launched himself at the demon who bent over a reclining figure with his weapon in his raised hand. Paimon didn’t even get to turn around completely before Crowley sent his brutish form flying and tumbling over the top of a dune. Crowley had no idea whether his blow had been fatal or not, but at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less.  
  
 _“Aziraphale!”_  
  
The angel lay writhing in the sand. His wings were out and wrapped around his body in a desperate attempt at self-protection. Crowley fell to his knees and tried to reach for his face through the silvery feathers. Aziraphale gasped, and a white glow began to flicker through his defensively raised wings.  
  
“Angel, it’s me,” Crowley whispered without flinching back.  
  
At first there was no reaction, but then the glow diminished. Aziraphale allowed him to bend one of his wings aside and expose his upper body. The angel’s hands were clasped around the grip of a dagger that had been soundly sunk in the left side of his chest. But there was not enough blood to explain the piercing scream that still rang in Crowley’s ears. He pushed Aziraphale’s hands aside and caught a glimpse of some luminous red engravings on the black blaze that shimmered between the dagger's grip and the wound. As he bent closer, his breath caught in his throat. This was not any simple dagger. It was an instrument of torture used to skin the Damned before they were pushed into the Fires of Dis. Crowley had no idea what exactly it was doing to Aziraphale, but the angel twisted in agony, as if all the suffering that the weapon had ever caused was coursing through him.  
  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said to the heavily breathing angel, who was again jerking frantically at the grip of the weapon. “You can’t remove it, but I can. Let me do it.”  
  
Dazed blue eyes stared at him from a deathly pale face while he tried to get hold of Aziraphale’s struggling wrists.  
  
“Angel,” he pleaded. “ _Stop_. Only a demon can remove a weapon like this.”  
  
Crowley finally managed to pin both of Aziraphale's wrists to the ground and close his free hand around the grip of the dagger. With gritted teeth, he tried to rip it away in one short, sharp motion, but it only budged slightly before sinking a fraction deeper.  
  
Aziraphale cried out and convulsed before he sank back, gasping for air.  
  
“I'm sorry”, Crowley murmured into Aziraphale's damp hair. “I'm _so_ sorry. It’s stuck between your ribs. I might, um, have to break a few to get it loose.”  
  
“Do it, then!” Aziraphale snapped, panting against Crowley's temple.  
  
Crowley nodded and straightened. But before he could reach the dagger again, something clawed at his wings and ripped him forcefully away. The ground was receding with a breath-taking speed. His attacker flew a loop and slung him back through the cold, stinging air. The sand and Crowley’s instinctively spread wings somewhat softened his crash, but his head was spinning when he got back to his feet. He barely managed to draw his sword before the tall, blond angel raced towards him again.  
  
“Crumple, Fiend!”  
  
Their swords clashed and sparks flew from the burnished blades before Crowley ducked underneath them both and pushed the blond angel's feet off the ground. He flew to one of the higher dunes, trying to put some distance between himself and the absurd, blazing heavenly warrior.  
  
“Hey, couldn't we delay this whole smiting thing?” he yelled. “I was in the middle of something important!”  
  
“You will never harm my Brother again, Foul Scum!” Gilariel shouted back.  
  
“You're the one who's hurting him! Can't you see that he's in pain, you idiot?”  
  
“He will never suffer again when you are gone! He shall be blessed with Eternal Life!”  
  
“He’s not dying!” Crowley shouted. “Even if he was, I wouldn’t care! He'll come back, damn him; he always does. But this is worse than dying – he’s bloody losing his mind!”  
  
Still flailing wildly at Crowley with a sword, Gilariel didn't even seem to be listening.  
Crowley had forgot how stubborn and righteously blinded most angels became in Smiting Mode. His opponent was obviously completely beyond reason, if he had ever possessed such a thing. His behaviour made Crowley so angry and desperate that he would have torn Gilariel to pieces with his bare hands had he not realised the absolute expediency of using his sword.  
  
“For G - for Sa - oh, for _someone’s sake_!” he blessed under his breath before raising his voice again. “You bastard – you can kill me later!”  
  
Gilariel’s sword was set on a collision course with Crowley's neck, but suddenly there was a flash of light that sent both swords spinning into the sky. A radiant figure was descending from above.  
  
“No, I daresay he _can’t_.”  
  
Aziraphale’s wings rustled as he landed in front of them. The dagger was gone, and it appeared to have left nothing but a small, rapidly healing wound in his chest. His eyes glided to Gilariel, who stared back at him looking almost as stunned as Crowley felt.  
  
“Take care of the other one,” Aziraphale commanded, nodding into the direction of an approaching dark figure before slowly directing his gaze at Crowley. “This one is mine.”  
  
Crowley blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, Aziraphale had flung his arms around him and dragged him back into the air. After a few meters, Crowley freed himself with a savage kick to Aziraphale’s gut and launched back at him. Before the angel could regain balance, Crowley grabbed his waist with both arms and folded his wings neatly against his back. Completely entwined, they crashed to the ground, rolled over a sandy slope, and came to a panting halt with Crowley lying on top of Aziraphale and errant feathers raining down on both of them.  
  
Crowley's heart thumped painfully and unnecessarily against his ribs, and he felt cold fury, confusion, and startled _hurt_ all at once. When he tried to raise his head, he realised that Aziraphale had wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders. Crowley was uncertain whether the angel was hugging him or trying to suffocate him.  
  
“What are you doing?” he gasped breathlessly and threw a glance at Paimon and Gilariel, who were fighting intensively in the distance. “Have you completely lost your mind?”  
  
“Foolish, my dear. _Very_ foolish.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded muffled and feeble, but before long he had flipped Crowley over onto his back and got a decent strangle-hold on his throat. “Fight back,” he urged desperately. “They're watching!”  
  
Crowley grabbed hold of Aziraphale's wrists and attempted to throw him off. Only too happy to oblige, the angel flung himself sideways and struggled to his feet. Incredulously, Crowley got up and jumped on top of him again. Pinning him to the ground, he grazed his teeth over the skin of Aziraphale’s exposed neck.  
  
“What’s the meaning of this?” he hissed into the curls at Aziraphale's nape.  
  
“I think we both know that,” came the whispered answer, and he found himself lying flat on his back again (inexplicably shivering). They were busy giving each other fake slaps when Aziraphale froze and stared over his shoulder. “Ah, well," he said. “What a shame.”  
  
Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, beat with his wings, and glided towards the point where Gilariel and Paimon had been fighting only a few moments ago. Now, it was completely silent. Crowley discovered the reason for this when he landed next to Aziraphale and looked down the dune.  
  
Paimon and Gilariel had stabbed each other. _Fatally_.  
  
“Lo and behold,” Aziraphale sighed, clucking his tongue. “Think of the paperwork.”  
  
“Yep,” said Crowley, who was still breathless and trying to figure some things out. Just when he had formulated a number of perfectly reasonable questions, he noticed that Aziraphale was struggling for balance. He grabbed the angel's elbow to steady him. “How did you get that dagger out?” he asked with a glance at what remained of the wound.  
  
Once Aziraphale had steadied himself against Crowley’s shoulder, he pointed to Paimon’s corpse.  
  
“I used his hand while he was unconscious.”  
  
Crowley made an approving noise. Then he frowned.  
  
“Why didn’t you just kill him then?”  
  
Aziraphale cleared his throat and fluffed his wings ever so slightly.  
  
“It... didn’t occur to me.”  
  
But Aziraphale's gaze lingered appraisingly on Gilariel, somehow curiously _satisfied_ , and Crowley felt his fingers dig deeper into the angel's soft arm.  
  
“You didn’t,” he whispered.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”  
  
“Oh, for Babylon’s sake!” Crowley turned the angel to him so they were facing each other, unable to decide whether he was completely scandalized or sickeningly charmed by him. “You planned this!”  
  
“Why, I - ”  
  
“You wanted to get rid of him! That’s why you allowed Paimon to hurt you, never mind the fact that he was a clumsy, useless moron! You called Gilariel for help, but then...”  
  
Crowley's voice trailed off in shock.  
  
Aziraphale smiled slyly at him.  
  
“You showed up first.”  
  
 _And almost ruined both our plans_ , Crowley thought.  
  
A breeze blew over the desert to where they were standing and made their plumage rustle softly. The wind carried the sound of human voices moving slowly but steadily towards them in a long caravan.  
  
Aziraphale straightened, and their eye contact broke.  
  
“Jacob,” he said in a low voice. “I have to go.”  
  
“No, you don't,” Crowley said, holding on to him. _Angel, you're hurt._ But he didn’t say it. He had embarrassed himself enough already.  
  
“Are you sure you haven't got any wiles for me to thwart?” Aziraphale asked.  
  
“Laban won’t find out today,” Crowley replied. “You know I like giving them a head start to make things more interesting.”  
  
“Well, then,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Let’s head back.”  
  
“Um...” Crowley stared at the two corpses. “Shouldn’t we at least bury them or something?” he said begrudgingly.  
  
“Oh, _er_ , yes. Yes, quite. Thoughtful of you, my dear.”  
  
Crowley suppressed a cringe, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, having waxed businesslike.  
  
“I know a place," said the angel.  
  
While they were scooping sand on the bodies of their discorporated companions, Crowley tried to convince himself that he ought to feel very Wicked and exceedingly proud that he had coaxed the angel into a compromising situation such as this one.  
  
“Look at us,” he said. “I doubt that Above and Below will send us new assistants any time soon.”  
  
“No, they won’t,” Aziraphale said, with sand trickling from his plump hands over the exposed remainder of Paimon’s dark head. “But I know now that I don’t need an assistant.” He shot Crowley a smile. “ _You're_ perfectly adequate at defending me from Evil.”  
  
Crowley squirmed and vehemently shoveled more sand on Gilariel.  
  
“And _you're_ not half bad at back-stabbing," he countered. “And at killing angels.”  
  
Aziraphale’s wings twitched while he continued working with his back turned to Crowley.  
  
“Don’t be silly; _I_ didn’t kill him. That friend of yours did.”  
  
Crowley straightened and stepped up next to him.  
  
“He wasn't my friend, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale got to his feet as well.  
  
“My dear,” he said gently, and dusted some sand from Crowley’s sleeves. “Let’s not speak of it.”  
  
But Crowley wasn’t finished yet.  
  
“Demons don't tend to make friends. They take more glee in being rivals or traitors, or minions and bootlickers like Paimon was. It’s a major disadvantage.” He swallowed when he realised how dark and constrained his voice sounded in the cool night.  
  
But it was too late. Aziraphale’s hand had stopped brushing and went still on his shoulders.  
  
“I beg to differ,” Aziraphale said. “Gilariel didn’t act like a friend to me earlier.” Soft curls brushed against Crowley’s temple. “He _didn’t_ ,” the angel repeated for emphasis  
  
This time, it was definitely an embrace.  
  
Crowley blinked several times and saw how the lights of the caravan drifted along the horizon. He thought of Jacob and Leah and Rachel, and suddenly he understood perfectly well what it felt like to want something that had never been intended for him.  
  
In spite of himself, he smiled and hugged Aziraphale back.  
  
 _Sometimes_ , he had to admit, _even a demon only wants the best of one world_.


End file.
